From one day to another, the same pursues itself. Capitalise it: the Same; writing as writing, language as language: how to remain on the threshold where anything might be said, where writing trusts you to go on with your work?
To secure your tomorrow, that’s what you seek. Where the next day follows from the last; where a kind of circle begins to trace itself and what is before you returns to yesterday, and the day before summons the next day before it as a kind of witness. The past and the future meet here, in the moment of writing. They witness each other; they pass, each in their own direction.
The look back is the look forward; now the days lie down, one after another, in perfect continuity. Summer is this: the continuity of days. Summer is the ‘as’ of writing as writing, language as language. It is the silence around which the whole sky of stars, writing, turns.
Eternal summer, that gathers to itself all potentials. How is it you are young again, with possibility as your element? We used to meet as children with our bikes under the ‘great pine’ every morning. That patch of wasteland in between the houses seemed to draw to itself all potential, all potency. What would happen today, in the greatest of days? We would cycle away, sustained, each day, by infinite possibility. And to write from day to day? It is the same; it is the same of the same, the axis that is the summer turning.
Lars Iyer's Blog 